Tales from the Jet Stream
by IWriteAceCombatSmut
Summary: A small collection of Short Fan Fiction stories I have written in the Ace Combat Universe. Some are good, others not so much, I'll let you decide which is which.
1. The Old Man

John was an Old man, he looked like it, he felt like it most days and it was widely assumed by most people he met that he was years past his prime. This never bothered the farmer that much, even though he was chronologically still at the beginning of his life. In fact, nothing seemed to bother the man that much anymore. He never put too much thought into petty squabbles when there was more important work to get done on the farm, always a planting or harvest, and failing that some piece of machinery that needed to be repaired or other chores to keep the property functioning. No, not much bothered John at this point in his life. He was quite content, despite the pestering of his wife and few friends he had made in the small town.

Then suddenly he heard it again. A soft but distinct _boom boom_, like that of a large drum being hit in quick succession. He had heard it almost constantly for the previous two days. He grimaced. Though he tried to not show it, some things did pain John. It was a reality he had spent the previous eight and a half years trying to put behind him. It was the sound of war. And to John, it was a sound that haunted him constantly.

Not many people knew about John prior to his arrival to their small farming community eight years prior. He looked older and most assumed he was a veteran looking for a quiet life after the Military discharged him. For the most part they were correct in this assumption. For all his Wife, young daughter, family and friends knew, John had served in the Defense Forces during the last war, did his time and came out to the bread basket of Osea to spend his twilight years. John never spoke about his time in the military, during the Veterans day and remembrance days John never dressed up or made special note, "No time, always something to do on the farm" he would say when pressed on why. Yet, when he heard the sonic boom and the roar of jets two days prior, it got him to stop.

he was in a parking lot of a grocery store, helping his wife load bags into the back of their beat-up car. John couldn't help but notice that people were flocking around TV sets. Investigating he saw the images. Warships burning at harbor. Pillars of black smoke blocking out, belching from cracked hulls of destroyers, defenseless at port. It was an image he had witnessed first hand in the last war, when the Yuktobanians attacked Port St. Hewlett. On the car ride back home is when he had heard the quick beat of the drums. He never saw the suspect aircraft, but he had an idea that it was Osean. During his time in the Military he had grown accustom to the sound.

John looked out onto his property and thought to himself. After the ceremonies, repatriations, medals and an eventual promotion and pension he earned. John decided to distance himself from that life. No one knew that John wasn't his given name, it wasn't even close. It was the reason he chose it. Such an unassuming name, that when the truth of what he and his unit did, no one could find him. He had hoped that those who wanted him assumed that he was dead. During the war he and his team were listed as missing in action presumed killed in action during the heat of combat. No bodies were recovered, and it was only towards the end that they were able to rejoin with the main Osean force. As far as John could tell he was the only one to fully put that part of his life behind him. He still kept tabs on where his comrades were, but he never put any effort in contacting them. Like with those who would want to find him for his actions, he hoped that the people he served along side had assumed he had died as well. Dropping off the radar as completely he did had so far done him well.

But the thought lingered in his mind.

John still expected, despite all his efforts, that they would once call upon him and his comrades again. Despite all the strain he had put his body through, many still regarded him as the best of his craft. Early on in his career his superiors noted his exceptional abilities, the same ones that John credited with his survival of the hell that his team and him endured following their disappearance. They were also the same skills that earned him a moniker of "Demon" by friend and foe alike.

John waited until that evening, when his family had gone to bed to pull out his box. It was a small trunk, unassuming and the same that they had been using for Christmas decorations and the like, one that would gain no more then a brief glance, holding a flashlight in his mouth he popped the trunk open. Inside was the few items he kept from his old life. A copy of his degree, Identification and documentation, His uniforms, Dog tags, unit patches, various challenge coins, awards and decorations. John took a moment to dig through the box, painstakingly making sure he kept himself quiet to find the one item. He lifted the garment out of the box gingerly. It was an old jacket; the leather had started to crack and fade in the disuse. John could faintly smell a hint of oil and jet fuel, a smell that despite his best efforts during the war, never came out. He studied it briefly. He noted the still present shadow of a patch adorning the breast pocket, and then the nametape.

On the nametape it had a very simple depiction of the Naval Aviator badge and his callsign.

_BLAZE _


	2. Complications: A Bandog Story

Complications; always there seemed to be complications when dealing with the Penal unit.

The mission was supposed to be a simple hit-and-run air raid the 444 had done a few times prior. A mission too dangerous to send any competent unit in, but with the convicts no one cared if they made it home or not. The radar facility the Spares had been attacking was in the Waiapolo Mountain Range in northern Usea, far within Erusean Airspace and territory. The target, the primary long-range radar that was feeding targeting information to the drones that had been dogging the Osean Air Force since the war started two months prior. In the sortie the usual suspects were flying. Count, Spare 2, the self-appointed flight leader, though few pilots followed his 'orders'; Trigger also known as Spare 15 the pilot who had killed the former president, though he was silent and generally did not associate much with the other inmates at Zapland the pilots generally followed his lead in combat, Count included. The Spare 6 slot was taken by a loudmouth named Full Band, and Spare 11 was the idiot Belkan Tabloid along with Spares 5 and 9, a slot given to new arrivals to the 444.

Each had committed a sin and the Spare Squadron was the penance to their crimes. If they died in combat so be it. The Osean military had sunk far too many resources in the disgraced officers in the squadron just to let them rot in a cell during a time of war.

The first hiccup of what was being called "Operation Flush" came almost directly after the final radar site was destroyed. The hotshot Trigger had once again proved his worth to the military with a clean sweep as the other convicts attacked the anti-air sites littered around the mountains.

It was a surveillance operator that alerted the crew commander to the new contacts.

"Sir, I got new contacts entering the AO, IFF reads Osean Maritime Defense Force. Copy, 7 F/A-18 Hornets entering the AO but I can't get any more data from that. No idea where they were sortied from"

This got the commanders attention away from the celebratory banter of his pilots.

"Wait a minute, hold it." The ban dog barked on the common frequency that all his pilots, and theoretically any Osean pilot should have been listening to.

"Whats going on Bandog?" queried the Belkan, Ignoring the question the commander sent out the basic transmission.

"This is the Air Force Base 444 Squadron. What is your affiliation?" to the unknown friendlies. This development was not new to the Spares as a few weeks prior they had run the rear guard for the Long-Range Strategic Strike Group.

There was an uncomfortable silence over the air as the Spares formed up to visually inspect the interlopers. The mission, like all Spare Squadron operations, was classified, theoretically no one outside of the 444 and Headquarters should have known what was happening today.

"Nobody told me there was this many nearby" Bandog explained confused to his pilots, even if they were some of the worst Osea had to offer, they had done more then many pilots he knew and at least deserved the courtesy of being on the same page as everyone else.

"Incoming allied fighters. Respond" he asked again, a slight hint of desperation betrayed in his voice. While he had no real obligation to keep the pilots alive, the past few weeks had found him with some comradery with the pilots, even if he was the one often sending them to solitary confinement after each mission.

"The regular forces don't want anything to do with the penal base." Count stated incredulously

Seconds later the confused voice of Spare 5 broke the silence, "They have radar lock!", "The IFF says they're allies!" Count shouted.

The mood in the AWACS was of utter pandemonium as each operator was trying to figure out what was going on. Their IFF system was fed to the AWACS via Satellite, what was unfolding infront of them theoretically shouldn't happen.

""Whoa, time out! Don't tell me they're barrier troops" Spare 6 asked pointedly.

To the best of everyone's knowledge Osea did not employ barrier forces but there was no saying if these pilots just didn't like sharing the airspace with convicts.

The confusion only worsened as the 'Friendlies' were lining up shots and locking onto the Spares.

"Osean fighters, do not attack! Shit!" Bandog exclaimed over the radio. "Will someone tell me what the hell is going on?" he shouted to the mission crew inside the 767. He had 19 crewmen, all working on different parts of the battlefield and feeding information to the pilots. He could see one crewman frantically talking to the Headquarters, apparently the mystery Hornets were not Osean.

"These guy's aren't allies!" the Commander informed the Spares.

"Are they spoofing our IFF?!" Full Band asked, fear ever apparent in his voice.

Shaking his head, Bandog responded "Modern IFF connects to our strategic system via satellites."

"It can't be decoded!" though, clearly that assumption had been wrong. He had an ever-dwindling number of pilots in the air that were in danger because no one foresaw this as a possibility. Another victory for military intelligence he thought to himself, pacing the walkway of the aircraft.

"The Enemy is working in coordination!" exclaimed one pilot,

The mission commander walked over the flight status crewman, the airman shot a concerned glance at the commander, then back to the Aircraft status readings. Multiple aircraft had been flagged NO DATA indicating that they had fallen victim to the 'friendly' fighters. "At this rate, no one's going to get out alive." He muttered to himself. Shit, did I accidently transmit that? The thought noticing his thumb on the microphone button.

Taking a deep breath, he thought of something. "All aircraft, head into the clouds. Get out of the enemy's sight." Thought it was not a solution, the ample cloud cover in the mountain range had bought the Spares some reprieve earlier in the mission and couldn't hurt their chances now.

"Then what?!" shouted Count

"What about Markings and craft type?" Tabloid added, it was a good idea but all indications seemed that the friendlies were, at one point at least, Osean fighters.

"Information regarding the IFFs is top secret. There's no way they could make a fake." Tabloid reiterated. Had you asked Bandog this morning, he would have agreed but now, that was clearly no longer the case.

Then, for the first time in a while Tabloid had a good idea.

"All Aircraft, gather around me—I mean Trigger!" This caught Bandog and the other pilots flat footed. Tabloid continued "Bandog! Can you register Trigger and the blips around him as friendlies?"

The commander looked to his Weapons crew, the ones who would be responsible for the IFF data going to the pilots. The head operator, a master sergeant quickly responded "Sir, we would have to have the Surveillance side cut the Satellite downlink, then we would be putting it in manually for the remaining friendlies, but it should work." The head surveillance operator gave the thumbs up and the commander gave the nod of approval. "Sure" he said, a grin appearing on his face as he monitored the TAC screen.

"Alright. All aircraft form up on Trigger! Nice and tight!" Tabloid directed. Soon a clear delta formation was formed in the middle of all the friendly blips.

"Sir, I seem to have lost Spare 6 in the mix, can you have him called out?" asked one operator.

"Bandog its on you"

"Full Band what's your location?" Bandog asked A quick response of "The tail end" followed. Again getting a quick thumbs up from the operator the final data was input.

A wicked smile was now on the guard dogs face.

"I've sent new ID data. Enemies will be marked as enemies. Shoot them all down!"

"No way I'm dying out here!" said a newly determined Full Band,

"This is the penal unit. I decide when you die" Bandog retorted.

The guard dog watched silently as he saw his pilots dispatch the hostiles. While they were criminals, they were also some of the best pilots he had seen in a long time.

As the battle continued, The Eruseans pulled out the big guns, unleashing cruise missiles from their captured Arsenal Birds. As explained from Headquarters, the weapon was Helios. Clearly his Spares had kicked the hornet's nest, and as he hoped, the Erusean's in their soft bits as well.

His pilots, though following their own procedures and not even playing well with each other took the change in stride. He watched as each individual hostile blip disappeared off the map until one remained. The feed was coming from the flight leader who was also feeding the TAC map.

"Count, one to go. Go get him" It was amazing to him. Even while leading a bunch of people who by all rights had no loyalties left to Osea, they still did their jobs expertly.

"All right! I got the last one!" was faintly heard over the confused murmur within the AWACS, suddenly Spare 6 had vanished from everyone's screens.

Audible over the radio was a shout of frustration that sounded like Full Band before it cut out.

"Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?" Bandog asked the AWACS Crew

"Sir, Spare Six just dropped off my screen, surveillance also lost him" reported one of the Crewman

"Weps, do you have him" asked another crewman.

"Friendly fire?" asked one of the Spares.

"Full Band got tagged as an enemy" Tabloid stated flatly.

A silence fell upon everyone within the aircraft. A sudden dread overtook Bandog, he off in the distance heard Counts accusing voice. The only thing he could think about was the last few words Count said

You did that on purpose

"Did what?" in that very moment, Bandog felt very small as all the eyes of the mission crew were on him

"Don't play dumb! Full Band!" Count shot back.

Bandog played the previous few minutes back in his head. It was not his order to have his pilot shot down. But, like many things, one more complication reared its ugly head.

"It was an accident. It got out of control." he stated flatly, though even he could smell the bullshit in that statement.

"Return to base" was the final order he gave to his pilots.

"Son of a bitch!"

"Who the hell was responsible for Spare Two's Tac feed?" The crew was silent. It was thirty minutes since the last Spare had left the AO, Though the AWACS listened no emergency transponder was triggered, nor did anyone see Spare Six punch out of his F/A-18.

Eventually, someone spoke up. Their newest addition to the AWACS Crew. A young female Staff Sergeant that had cross trained from Air Force Special Investigations.

He made a motion for her to leave her and the Weapons supervisor to leave their posts and follow him to a more secluded part of the aircraft.

Bandog looked down at his boots, temper rising by the second

"Now, do you want to tell me how you fucked up that badly?"

"Sir, if I may?" The Weapons supervisor chimed in

"No! Your just here to be a witness, so stand there and shut up until I say you can speak" Bandog Sharply put jabbing a finger into the Master Sergeants flight suit. Pointing back to the Staff Sergeant he asked again

"Start from the beginning, How. Did. You. Screw. Up" Admittingly it was in poor leadership form, but so was having someone killed because of a 'mistake', something that after the events of Waiapolo, Bandog was believing less in by the second.

She stammered, taken back by the out of character outburst of the mission commander, a man defined by his apathy and almost seeming disregard for the safety of the Spares.

He waited patiently, though that was a fuse that was burning shorter every second.

"All Right, Cause here's what I think happened. I think you over heard that blow hard talking. And, I'm willing to bet certain body parts that there's a reason you were a last-minute addition to this crew. I read your personnel file when McKinsey told me that you were taking a seat here. Before going AWACS, you ran counter intel in the OSI. Now tell me, why would a desk jockey in one of the most sought-after positions, give it up to be aircrew?"

She flinched when he said OSI

"Now, correct me if I'm wrong. But, I'm betting that, if we went into your dorm at Zapland, we would find a computer, and on that computer behind a few passwords we would find that your still under command of the OSI. Am I right?"

Gulping she tried to respond before being cut off one more time

"Well, I'm also willing to bet that your looking to take more of a role in your counter intel job, so, when you heard that bull that Full Band was saying, you started thinking of ways to tie up loose ends. Well, that would be fine in the intelligence and spy business, but that doesn't work here." He said sharply, staring her in the eyes

Almost switching on a dime, the diminutive woman stated sharply "Well sir, I do believe you could be in over your head, kinda like how that Spare Six was" defiantly changing her posture. This revelation somewhat shocked the normally stoic Weapons supervisor, given away by his uncomfortable shifting of weight and slight cough.

Bandog snorted a bit shaking his head. "No, No Staff Sergeant I don't think I am. In the prison business we call what you did murder. You understand that? I can damn well bet now that you just compromised your position, and killed an Osean Fighter pilot in the process, the nice men and women in OSI will have nothing to do with you. So instead of that nice shiny medal you were hoping for, a orange jump suit will be your reward."

Starting to walk away he stopped briefly and looked back at the two crewman

"Oh, And I might add you're the real dumbass here, Your job isn't even Penal unit worthy so you're going to sit the rest of your time out in a cell."


	3. Fall of the Titans

For those who are wondering, Yes, dying hurts. It also sucks and is slightly – read extremely- traumatizing for all involved in the process of death. As well, for those who were also wondering, of war and Hell, War is the worst of the two. Yep, like the good man on the television said, war is chalked full of innocent bystanders. I have no ill will towards the son of a bitch that killed me. I had enough life in me to see him catch an AIM-9 to the face so I got a bit of a revenge with that faint image in the dying light as I lost vision. Yes, "War is war and hell is hell and of the two war is a lot worse". But now I guess I now have you at the disadvantage. Just consider one thing as I tell you this, I am, was, a pilot, and this is the story of how I died. Well, not just me, my squadron was there too, and not really a how we died, as anyone with two braincells to put together can tell you that death is always caused by the same thing, lack of oxygen getting to the brain. Now that can happen any matter of ways, old age when ones body breaks down and becomes unable to supply oxygen to that organ, accidently walking in front of the 6 AM Red line train, or like in my case, a 30 millimeter round hitting me center mass from a Erusean MiG 29 and consequently through blood loss and the fact I immediately lacked a rib cage and most of my vital organs were either ruptured, failed or located in other parts of the cockpit that was not in my body, I lost control of my fighter and crashed in the middle of a cul-de-sac in Suburbia Farbanti.

That hurt. A lot.

Alas I am not the first pilot to go down with their plane and certainly won't be the last.

Now, when most people think of their last moments, they think the last things that will be going through their mind will be their lives flashing before their eyes or they see some Pearly gates and cherubs singing. My final moments were not so glamorous. The Eagle I was flying had been through the ringer the past week, maybe It was because I was tired and that's why I slipped up, or maybe the other pilot was just that good and it was just another areal victory to him. It was those things that I was thinking about in my last moments, not regrets or of my loved ones, just trying to figure out how I found myself in that situation. And like I said before, before I could come to a satisfying conclusion my plane and I became a nice crater on top of a SUV. The conclusion I can give after the fact is, the specifics of how I found myself in that situation in relation to the plane and my physical and mental well being were not the important things. The Important thing is why I was even there, in that fighter, fighting a losing air war over the capital of a country that had seen so much destruction the last twenty years it wasn't even fully reconstructed after the massive meteor impact in ninety-nine. We were fighting a people that had the time and patience to rebuild, a trait they had proven time and time again.

Well, now you look confused. Don't worry, it will all make sense at the end of this story. I will save you all the meta physical mumbo jumbo that takes place after you die and tell you this; Just know that we all punch our ticket in the end, and I did it along side the rest of my buddies. But maybe I should just start from the beginning. My callsign was 'Compass', and I am, well was, a fighter pilot.

May 16th was by all means a boring day. The pilots of the Eight Hundred and Fourteenth Tactical Fighter Squadron. We were at Ivanovich Air Base on the east coast of Yuktobania. We had been sent there a few days prior to take part in the "Eighth Fighter Training Invitational", an annual two week event, this year hosted by the Yukes, to help create working relationships with foreign Air Forces and to help crews learn to communicate and fight effectively in the event of another Belkan or Circum-Pacific style war where multiple countries would be fighting in Coalition together. It was also a way for the Yukes and Osean's to help keep tabs on how advanced the others air power had developed. Though President Harling and Prime Minister Nikanor had made many advancements in peace following the Circum-Pacific war and the subsequent air raid on North Osea, players on both sides of the conflict had long memories and almost all of the Eight Fourteen were present at the Battle of Sudentor or knew someone who had been.

It was the third night of the Invitational. For a second time in a row the Erusean Air Force had been a no-show, but the same was for the Estovakians and Belkans so no one really thought anything of it. All three of the nations had their air forces gutted in the post Ulysses conflicts. It was widely assumed that their respective governments just didn't see the need to have their envoys have to negotiate airspace clearances and escorts and fuel stops. The math just didn't work out, so no one put forth the effort.

The third day of the exercise ended with night combat training. I had been flying wingman to the Squadrons defacto second in command Titan two, Callsign 'Mortar' in her and her Combat Systems Operator 'Tanks' F-15E. The night operation was simple Air- to -Air combat in conjunction with a fighter squadron from Emmeria under the direction of an IUN AWACS under the callsign 'Brenin' while the Yukes, Titan Three with his CSO, Callsigns 'Jeeves' and 'Neo' respectively were covered by Titan four, callsign 'Ernie' in her F-15C, while they flew aggressor. The Mission was a loss for Mortar, Tank, the Emmerian's and me. Two of the eight Emmerian fighters were forced below the operation deck and 'Crashed' while I was 'shot down' by a long-range missile 'fired' from a Yuke Su-27. The debriefing was not a pleasant one as each of our mistakes were shown to the rest of the pilots present. It just further pointed out the difficulty of air combat, let alone air combat at night in a foreign country against the home team.

Leaving the briefing hall, the six of us Osean pilots wandered back to our make shift base of operations, a double wide trailer two miles from the Air Base with a TV, barely working antenna, Card table, kitchenette with a coffee maker and nothing else, One bathroom with a shower and toilet, and the bunks for the pilots. Not exactly the five-star accommodations we were used to when we became Air Defense Force pilots, but we managed. The walk back for the losers of the nights mission was quiet, Chief Master Sergeant 'Tank' was unusually quiet and sulking. A departure from her usual infectious optimism which she had become known for among the pilots. Further on ahead Jeeves and Neo could be heard badly signing the verses to one rap songs on the recent fighter game they had been playing to kill time. One would attempt the first line "Gotta stay fly, gotta stay strong" followed by the other responding with "Ace Ready! All day long" on and on and back and forth for a few minutes. After about the tenth or fifteenth repeat of this Ernie who had been talking on the way back with Mortar shouted

"Shut Up Already! Its almost if you guys only know those two lines!"

"So? What if it is the only two lines we know?" Jeeves shot back

"Literally sing anything else or shut the hell up!" Mortar barked.

"Deal, Oh It's such a perfect day!" Neo shouted, breaking into another song.

Giggling like the two idiots they were when given free reign of their night both Jeeves and Neo changed their tactics to running off singing the other song they had annoyed their fellow pilots with since they had been teamed up.

Mortar stopped and watched the two officers running around singing and creating a ruckus, in disbelief she folded her arms and watched the two as they tore off towards the trailer, apparently deciding to race who could get there first.

"My god, its like we have two children that the military just trusts with explosives and fighter jets" she said to no one in particular, the dismay ever present in her normally stoic voice.

"Well, technically its just the one fighter jet" I added, watching the two disappear down the dimly lit street.

"Not helping Compass" Tank muttered.

"Yeah, but…"

"Not. Helping." she stated sharply.

The walk back was silent once the two adolescent minded airmen were out of vocal range. I looked down at my watch 0342, I wasn't scheduled to fly again until 1530, but I had to be at the flight line at 1200 for briefing and aircraft prep. Which meant I had to be up and out of bed no later then 1030, which also meant so much for a full eight-hour rest. Damn this sucked some days.

Unlike when it was hosted in Osea in years past, there was very little to do in Yuktobania. Ivanovich Air Base was located in the ass end of nowhere, the closest town not attached to the Air Base was a good thirty-minute plane flight away. To put it lightly the only things to do at the base in the off time was Drink or bowl, and most of the time both at the same time because there was that much of nothing to do or see.

Finally shuffling through the screen door of the double wide, instead of being greeted by the usual activities we had become accustom to living in close quarters the past week, we found the other pilots huddled around the tiny TV. Kish, Earp, the new girl River, and the Squadron commander were watching intently, and even Jeeves and Neo were silent as they watched the news.

On the TV was images of fire and destruction. Something we had all come accustom to seeing every few years, but this was different. Instead of being of foreign lands burning. The Images depicted were of Osea. The OFS Albatross burning in its moorings at Fort Grays. Multiple Air bases within Osea with ramps full of burning and destroyed fighters. Images far too close of those of a decade prior.

"Any Idea what's going on?" I asked

"Keep it down" said the Squadron Commander 'Professor', firmly as he adjusted the volume on the TV.

"Civilian casualties are low, but multiple military and industrial sites were destroyed in the ensuing combat. Again Diana, we do not know what is going on or who is responsible for these attacks, but we do know now that the OFS Albatross, along with multiple Peace Keeping forces bases in Usea and Osea were attacked today. A Death toll has not been reached but from what we have seen we can say its safe to assume it is very high. We are currently waiting on word from Bright Hill on any recent developments" the newscaster reported.

It was a few hours later the news broadcast had any updated information. Apparently, the Kingdom of Erusea had declared war on Osea. Their Princess had made a big speech on how the development of the Lighthouse complex, a giant space elevator that had made most conventional methods of getting to orbit obsolete, was in direct violation of Erusea's sovereignty. Their attack was perpetrated by mostly unmanned aircraft controlled remotely which were sent via shipping containers to Osea and to ports near IUN Peace Keeping Force bases. They had also launched a Large military push and had seized the Lighthouse along with possibly capturing or killing former Osean President Victor Harling. The Erusean casualties were light, only a few dozen as a few of their bombers had been shot down by IUN Pilots. Osean on the other hand. Upwards of twenty-three thousand dead or wounded. It was a massive attack and a gut punch to the military. Almost all the aircraft carriers we had at port had been sunk or were sinking. Many of the Air Bases both in Osea and Erusea had been hit, hundreds of aircraft were trashed and the only forces that were spared were those far enough inland, on overseas duty assignments like us or already out at sea.

We watched in silence as the news replayed the Erusean Bitch's speech. She couldn't have been more then eighteen or nineteen. Yet lecturing us on how we were "Aggressors" and stating that the actions of constructing a space elevator were 'Illegal'. Now, none of us were law students before becoming pilots but I can safely say that the unwarranted murder of thousands was not a way to make amends for someone stepping on your toes.

There wasn't much sleep for the pilots of the 814 that night as we were all glued to the TV.

The next morning the exercises were called off and the other nations were sent home. We watched on the TV as the news of a failed retaliatory strike by the OFS Krestel II had been launched, quickly devolving into a FUBAR level situation. Our first punch into this new fight and we end up bombing civilian targets. Not since the cluster at Dresdene was the Osean military so flat-footed in their response. It wasn't until the day following we received orders, though that would be a hyperbole. It was a simple flight plan, airports to hit for fuel, expected waypoints and not much else. We had our orders to return home to November City.

The Aircrew had packed up their gear in the C-130 and was awaiting our startup so they could also leave the shit-hole that was Ivanovich. They had the endurance to proceed direct, but we alas, lacking our external tanks, had to make the fuel stop at Sand Island Municipal.

The flight itself was quiet. There wasn't much to say as we headed back home. Jeeves and Neo had briefly started taking requests for music which helped kill the time. I was flying the far starboard side of the formation but could still see what some of the other pilots were up to.

Both Kish, Mortar, Tank and Professor switched to a semi-private frequency, which in itself was a joke as anyone else could tune in, but it was off the main squadron channel, so no one had to listen. The four were discussing their thoughts on the recent events. All of them had seen some combat during the waning days of the Circum-Pacific War. Professor and Kish had even been in the Nugget squadron that ran combat air patrol over North Osea as the Razgriz led coalition went against the conspirators a second time. They were the only combat veterans who had seen actual warfare.

Though not talking on the radio from my place in the formation I could see Jeeves and Neo having a conversation, though it was generally hard to pin down the topic as it would range anywhere from what anime one of them had been watching to plans on how to get their Strike Eagle prepared for any conflict. It was understandable how many of us considered them the 'children' of the squadron, though they collectively outranked half of us in experience in their efforts during the Erusean Insurrection a few years prior.

Though I could not see the rest of the squadron in detail I had flown with them enough to have a good idea of what they were up to, Ernie had generally been the one to pack a few novels in her flight bag for these ferry flights, Earp had a small laptop he would work on to kill the boredom and River had a small notebook she would spend her flight time drawing in.

All I did was usually bring a Camera or tune into the Neo-Jeeves mid-air radio station but most of my time was staring out the canopy at a whole lotta nothing.

Sand Island was busier then we had expected. When the attack first began Osean Air Defense Forces put a ground stop on all air craft and had all civilian traffic halted and diverted to the closest airport. Sand Island happened to be right along the route for civil aircraft heading in from Verusa so instead of a quaint little airfield with a few small Cessnas and Pipers putting around the few thousand-foot runways, there were dozens of airliners that were littering the ramp. A makeshift tent city was made for the stranded travelers and boats were docked in the harbor to bring people to the mainland.

Thankfully the Jet Fuel tanks were not raided by the Airliners but unfortunately the only method to fill the aircraft was the slow way of over wing, which meant crawling on the top of the plane, having another pilot hand you the hose and manually filling each tank until full.

We did that for all eight of our fighters.

Almost three thousand, five hundred gallons per plane, at a whopping twenty gallons a minute of fuel flow. Doing this for just my jet reminded me of how much I hated the job as a civilian.

A few hours later we were once again on our way back to Osea.

Though we had seen the images while in Yuketobania, seeing the plumes of smoke from fires still burning was a horrifying site to behold.

Though we attempted to contact civilian controllers, they were either unauthorized or unable to communicate with us. Aside from the occasional medical flight zooming around the radio was silent until we made it back to McNealy's airspace.

Even our home base was not scarred from the carnage of the opening hours of the war. Though the Airspace was once again secured, the Eruseans had done a number on the base, and when we arrived aside from the few fighters running CAP we were the only ones left. Multiple maintenance hangers were bombed out or destroyed, the fuel farm and antenna complexes were destroyed, and the Eruseans even damaged the radio navigation aids for the airport, meaning we had to actually be pilots and visually fly the pattern to land. Like savages!

We were given a small area of ramp space to once again call our own, cleared of fod and other debris by the ground crew that had beaten us by a few hours.

The ramp was eerily silent aside from the work crews clearing rubble and wreckage off the shattered concrete. We collectively watched the sun go down in the haze, turning the entire sky a hellish red.

After discovering that what was once our heritage room was turned into an infirmary, and that much of the base was in the middle of Erusean supplied extreme demolition, we were found by one of the remaining Intelligence personnel alive at McNealy who delivered our orders. We had a twelve hour stand down to get back to our own beds and then were to report to the hanger turned command center at 1145 the next morning.

When asked exactly which hanger that would be in, he just shrugged and said, "You will know it as it's the only one not bombed out" and spun on his heel walking away.

We spent the next few hours waiting for cabs, trying to see if any of our personal effects survived or were not raided by opportunistic individuals. I had been lucky, the old sedan I was driving since leaving flight training was still in the parking lot. Though others In the Squadron were not as fortunate, Earp's car had been crushed underneath an Erusean Drone, Ernie's was stolen, Jeeves forgot where he parked and ended up calling a cab home and Neo just walked. The four Old hats of the squadron disappeared after we were dismissed, and River was one of the few who stayed on base.

It was a long day and after getting out of the flight suit, I hit the bed and was out like a light.

The next morning, I was woken up at 0900 to my apartments phone ringing off the wall. Turns out many friends and family had been calling worried about what happened. My hometown was inland enough and far away enough from any military sites more than a recruiter's office that they had been spared witnessing the attack and had been relegated to watching the reports on the television.

The calls and well wishes did not stop coming, forcing me to unplug the cord so I could get ready for the debriefing in an hour.

Wearing a clean uniform, with a spare set of cloths in the back seat, I made my way on the freeway to McNealy. Traffic was starting to die down and the road into base was empty. Then I saw the main gate. The Erusean's had even decided that the gate itself was a strategic target and apparently found itself a victim of a missile attack. Little did they know Osean Security Forces had had them beaten in the causing terror at the base gate long before they had been a Federal Republic. Taking a detour to an alternate gate, all there was one Senior Airman with a card reader and a assault rifle at the ready. Apparently unaware that the attacks at that point had been relegated to the air exclusively, but I could see why everyone was jumpy.

I pulled up to the Hanger row at 1115 but didn't find a not bombed out one until closer to 1140. Outside I found the rest of the Squadron, apparently impatiently waiting on yours truly. Professor shot me the usual look of disapproval he gave everyone. He was on the shorter end of the scale, His hair was short cropped, you could tell it was brown when he was younger but had long since turned grey, the years of dealing with idiot pilots and physical strain had did a number on him. He was a very stoic individual and very few times did we see him joke or crack a smile. In comparison Mortar, who had all of two emotions bitch and angry, was more outward with expressions and joy.

The Debriefing was the usual thing, we spent a few hours discussing the exercise but then with that formality out of the way we were given our actual orders to get into the war Osea had found itself in.

We would be Positioned as a secondary wave in a second assault on Farbanti as we found out. We would be transferred to the Nordland Air Base Oost Punt, the name which made the younger pilots, Jeeves and Neo smirk, the Nords were a strange people with a funny language we had all concluded.

From Oost Point, henceforth called OP, we would launch, hit a few tankers and help the Kestrel II's remaining Carrier Wings secure Air superiority over the Capital, and provide air cover for a special operations team to capture the Erusean royal family and possibly end the war without any more bloodshed. The hope was with a decapitation strike, the Eruseans would either surrender, or collapse in on themselves like they did when the Federal Republic of Erusea was gutted by the ISAF. Either way it the Eruseans would stop fighting or turn their fighting away from the Oseans long enough we could launch another airborne assault to seize the Lighthouse and regain the major foothold in the region. We would be ferrying our aircraft out to OP in three days, and the assault would take place a week after that. Until then we were to prepare our ground crews and aircraft for the mission ahead and get ready to see actual combat.

Our planes, since I have not really talked about them, and as you might have guessed were not the normal flavor of fighter the Osean military fielded. After the Belkan war and absorption of Gründer Industries and their production methods, the costs and complexities of aircraft had gone down significantly. Before that the military had to deal with the design contractor directly to get planes. By 2010, almost three quarters of the Osean Air Defense Force had Gründer tech implemented in their arsenal. Now, aside from the target drones and a handful of other squadrons the 814th Tactical Fighter Squadron was the only group left to field original McDonnell Douglas workmanship. It was also the reason the Combat Systems Operator position existed within the squadron. But being relative dinosaurs compared to the rest of the squadron was not the only thing that had set us apart. Our planes were the few that still had unique aircraft markings. All our planes outboard sections of wings, the stabilators and rudders were all painted blue along with two dark blue stripes sandwiching a thick lighter blue stripe down the sides of our aircraft. Professor's aircraft differed in the only way that the entire vertical stabilizer of his aircraft was blue with the rudder instead being dark blue. Like with the antiquated airplanes we flew, we were one of the few squadrons left that still had markings like that as most of that esprit de corps was phased out in the years following the Belkan war. With our unique planes, we had been given the nickname of "Blue Tails" though that was hardly used within the squadron. Simply because being called 'Titan' had a better ring to it then 'Blue Tail'. It was all about the badass factor with fighter pilots.

A week ago, had anyone asked me what the most desolate, location I had been to while still being on a Military base was, I would have said that hell hole Ivanovich in Yuketobania. In comparison to Oost Punt Air Base in Nordland, Ivanovich was Oured. Until the week prior, Oost Punt was not so much an Air Base as it was a dirt strip with fuel and no trees. The Osean Army Corps of Engineers had spent a significant part of a week developing the plot of land that was Oost Punt into something that could be considered a forward operating base. The runway was now paved with Marston Mat and instead of the occasional Beaver or other backcountry aircraft, Oost Punt had a small fleet of fighters, transports, tankers and support personnel waiting for the push into Erusea across the channel. The last time anyone had seen a massive aircraft staging operation of this size was the initial invasions into Yuketobania almost a decade prior.

The region was known for its generally poor weather and today was no different. The musky smell of an ever-constant drizzle hung in the air and the soft pounding of precipitation almost drowned out the fervor of activity that OP had found itself in. I sat staring out of the 'hanger' out at the rain-soaked activities. I call it a 'hanger' because it was nothing more than a large tent erected over each of our aircraft to keep the rain off them. Even with the thick smell of rain I could smell the rancid air of the cigarette that hung lazily in his mouth as Earp walked up. Cursing that in the twenty-foot walk from his aircraft to mine the flame had burned out. He threw the soaked tube on the ground and reached in his flight suit pocket for another out of the pack, he offered one to me, which I declined, put another in his mouth. He flicked out a lighter and lit the paper took a long drag before putting it at his side and letting out a large puff of smoke.

We sat there as he finished his routine.

"So, you know you're not supposed to be smoking in the maintenance hangers, right?" I chastised.

"Eh, screw that rule. Life's to short to follow petty bull like that" he responded.

We sat and watched the replacement combat air patrol take off. In this case it was Professor and his Eagle leading, followed by Mortar and Tank in the Strike Eagle and River in her Eagle. The brand-new paint on the tails made our aircraft stand out that much more against the grey overcast skies.

As we watched Earp spoke up

"So, what do you make of this mission?"

"What do you mean? We are gonna be hitting the Erusean's back, seems pretty straight forward to me." There was still a bit of innocence in my voice I, no matter what I could do, could never drop. Even the regularly Pessimistic attitude I took to most things didn't help. Even though I was a Captain and dead middle of the chain of command for the squadron I still seemed lost at times.

"Yeah, I hope so" he said, voice trailing off in the roar of the CAP's afterburners lighting.

We stood for a few minutes observing. Before I coughed and spoke up. "What are your concerns?"

"Well, I was just thinking, you know, about the old war stories that our instructors would tell us at Heierlark" I of course knew where he was going. Heierlark was the fighter pilot training school for the Osean Air Force, many of the now air combat maneuver instructors had been Circum-Pacific war veterans and knew intimately the gritty reality of war was, even in the air. I distinctly remember one moment from my own time in North Osea.

It was right after a student had balled up a T-38 on short final resulting in a ball of flames that almost every student on the ramp saw. The pilot, a student on a solo, was gravely injured, his flight suit was blackened, and the scuttlebutt had been that the prognosis was grim, even if he survived he would not be in any shape to serve and would be medically discharged. The news spread like wildfire among the student ranks in such that within a few hours most of the base had learned of the incident. I remember going to a lecture that evening. Walking in the class found our head instructor sitting on his desk staring at the floor and seeming to ignore us. We did our standard accountability and waited at attention for what seemed to be an eternity before the instructor finally put us at ease. Then, he finally looked up and spoke.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, while I don't think this is new news to anyone as I am well aware it has already been told to you all. We had a bit of an Incident on runway three six today –".There was a bit of a murmur, the instructor paused briefly before he continued "- as I was saying, we did in fact have a jet crash on the runway. And unfortunately, I have just been informed that Second Lieutenant Lee Schmidt did not make it." The entire class seemed to freeze. It was obvious what many of us were thinking, if we had even interacted with him, who he was, any details at all to put context to the name. The instructor again waited before he exhaled sharply and went back to his monologue. "As you have guessed, flying is a dangerous job. And though no one here will admit it to you off the street, you will lose friends. You will see a plane take off and she and her pilot won't come back. Accidents happen. I'm sorry if I am the first to tell you this, but, I feel like you all need to know what your getting into." As he spoke he was making eye contact with each individual student. "Because let's face it, Lieutenant Schmidt was within eight seconds of touch down. Eight. And because something happened, he lost his life. Now I'm not blaming him, nor am I pointing fingers at any of the maintainers or anyone else. Sometimes parts fail in ways we just didn't expect. But he was so close to making it home, he wasn't on a combat sortie or long-range recon. He was out practicing stalls. That's it. That's all that was on his flight card. Something all of you have accomplished in the SR-22's enough that you could do it in your sleep." He Looked down at the floor again, seeming to try to find the exact words to use to get his point across. He gave a defeated sigh before continuing. "I guess my point is, what he was doing today is not what anyone would have considered dangerous. But, think about in a combat scenario? As you know almost all of us cadre here fought the Yukes a few years back. I can't tell you how many of my classmates, wingmen and friends did not get to RTB. It is honestly one of the worst feelings imaginable. For that, we have worked with the wing commander and retraining command to give you all an option. For the next week, no questions asked, you may forfeit your pilot slot and either receive the honorable discharge with the benefits you would have received had you passed and survived. Or you may retrain into another specialty. There is no hard feelings or judgement on our part. But, you have a week to decide if this is truly the life for you. If you decide its not, then just approach myself or one of the cadre and we will handle it. Dismissed"

In that week following we had a quarter of the flight cadets either leave or retrain in another specialty. It also was one of the few times that the normally jovial and smartass instructors actually had some reserve and treated us like adults. It was something that stuck with me, that speech he gave.

I snapped out of the thought to tune back into what Earp had been saying.

"We are going to be the second wave, right?" he asked,

"Well yeah, that's what the plan was"

"Well, we are supposed to have time on target eight minutes following the first attack from the carriers air wing. What if the first attack fails?"

"Go on?"

"Well, we might be the rear guard. Strictly speaking we cannot be carrier born aircraft, and the Kestrel is a far more strategically valuable target then a small fleet of fighters. I guess I'm just afraid. What if we are going to be backing up a grave yard? Are you really ready to die for Osea?"

He did have a point little did I know. But at the time It was a question I had struggled with. There was a bit of charm in my mind to have the nuclear family and the house with a little white picket fence, but there were also my friends. While I wasn't sure I would die for Osea, I would die for them.

"I don't know" I answered truthfully.

We sat until the Air raid siren went off.

"Attention all aircraft, Scramble, Scramble!" The voice said over the base loud speakers as the klaxon's blared.

both myself and Earp were within our planes and had our startup procedures going within a minute. Ground crews were rolling me out on the ramp when I tuned to the ground control

"Attention all aircraft, be advised, Takeoff clearance at your own risk, altimeter two eight tree tree, all aircraft are to take a heading of zero niner zero and link up with the AWACS Solomon on standard service UHF frequency for briefing. All Aircraft clear for take off once you enter the runway"

Within two minutes Earp and myself were airborne, and within another five so was the rest of the eight fourteen.

When Kish reported in for us we were delivered the briefing by Solomon.

"Ok Eight Fourteen, looks like your folks on CAP had picked up something and started taking fire. Their reports and radar indicate targets are at anywhere from angels one eight to five six. There's a whole lotta cloud cover with the storm so be advised. I also have troubling news that one fighter has dropped off and another took damage."

"Which ones was its Solomon?" Kish asked.

"Unknown, your squadron commander didn't say"

"Shit" exclaimed Ernie. A sentiment shared by the rest of us.

"Well, look at it this way, remember how they said 'There's no good reason to fly through a thunderstorm at peace time'? Guess what we get to do!" Jeeves quipped.

We were screaming along at mach 1.5. Since we were on quick dispatch our weapons load was weak to say the best, along with fuel at max performance we would be able to stay in the fight a little more then fifteen minutes before going bingo fuel and having to hit a tanker. For my aircraft, the ordies were only able to load two AIM 9 short air to air missiles and an AIM 7 long range Air to Air missile, along with 325 round belt of 20 mm ammunition for the M61 Vulcan rotary cannon, with the miniscule bullet count I could probably hold the trigger down for a little under seven seconds before going Winchester and having to RTB. Consensus around the squadron was that we were already ammunition low, so we were hoping the three on CAP did a bit of softening up before we arrived.

What happened next was a bit of a blur. I only have brief glimpses of memory as a lot of it was muscle reflex and instinct rather than conscious thought. I do distinctly remember seeing the IFF markers of two friendlies, Titan 1 and Titan 2, however River was not present. There were also eight Erusean SU-27 Flankers on top of both friendlies on CAP. The next Image I remember was seeing Mortars Strike Eagle, it was in rough shape, Earp and I had cleared the Flankers on her six with our Sidewinders, but she had suffered a lot of damage. I flew close enough to see that the canopy had been shot up and a clear blood spray painted the interior. It was clear someone was flying the jet, however though Earp and I tried we couldn't raise Tank or Mortar over the Radio, the last I saw of her in the fight was her making a slow turn towards Oost Punt smoke trailing behind her wounded bird with Earp escorting her back. I joined up on Ernie's wing and covered her as she danced with a particularly challenging Flanker pilot. She matched him move for move before he ran out of options, attempting a kulbit, causing him to stall out and present us with more then enough target to rip apart with guns.

Elsewhere, Professor was not as fortunate. I had quickly lost sight of him when the engagement began but I do remember what happened next. When the fight started Kish and Jeeves formed up to give Professor cover from the line of Flankers chipping away at his aircraft. He had already expended his guns and missiles so took to using his aircraft as a distraction, so reinforcements could arrive. Jeeves and Kish had dispatched the remaining fighters, before one noticed that there was something amiss with a trail coming from his aircraft.

It was Neo who made the call.

"Titan 1, Bail out, your about to be on fire!"

"Well, Isn't that just a fu–"

the next thing I saw was the brilliant blast and orange fireball of our squadron leader's F-15C dive for the waters of the channel.

It was, horrifying, just as bad as our instructors had said back when we were just students. Off in the distance I could hear the commotion over the radio.

"Titan 1, Professor Respond!" yelled Solomon, "Shit! Shit! Shit!" exclaimed someone else "Oh my god" another voice whimpered. But for me, it was like being underwater or in a tunnel. Distant. It couldn't be happening.

We stayed on station another few minutes before the F-16s of the 32nd Tactical Fighter Squadron relieved us and took over CAP.

The flight back was silent. Jeeves and Neo stayed quiet and we were all left with our own thoughts on the situation.

Back at base things were not any better.

Mortar's F-15E was crumpled off to the side, we would find out from Earp that her left main gear did not deploy resulting in a ground loop. Mortar had survived but was being air evacuated to the capital of Nordland for emergency surgery, but Tank was not as fortunate. At some point in the engagement she was hit by a piece of shrapnel and killed instantly. We arrived in time to see a medical crew pull her crumpled corpse out of the shattered cockpit of the aircraft.

The debriefing was short, and we were informed of the changing status of the unit. Since both our commander and his second in command were killed or wounded, Kish, who was the next highest-ranking pilot in the squadron, would be leading us into Farbanti. We were also told that our squadron would no longer be on CAP rotation and our planes would be repaired and better prepared for the operation. We were also informed that River's aircraft had been confirmed shot down, but no debris field or emergency locator was found, resulting her status as MIA presumed KIA.

It was a silent few days leading to the operation.

It was T-minus two days to the operation. Our planes had been repaired, and aside from the occasional probe of one to two Erusean fighters, Oost Punt was quiet.

We all had our ways of coping with the losses, the generally upbeat Jeeves and Neo were somber, both had taken River under their wings when she was assigned to the squadron. Now their little sister was missing but likely dead. Earp's cigarette consumption went up significantly to where he was not found without one with him lit. Kish was scarce, being stuck in briefings and strategy meetings for the upcoming operation. Ernie was slightly more difficult to read. Even though we had been wingmen for a while, I still was not sure if I or any one really knew her. I just passed the time since our teammate's deaths helping the mechanics to pass the time.

It wasn't until that evening that Kish called us all together. We all gathered at the hanger storing the twisted wreckage of Mortar's Strike Eagle. Tank's blood was still visible on the shattered canopy. In boxes around the twisted mass held the parts that came off when the left wing dragged alongside the runway. We stood around waiting for someone to speak, some of the other pilots studied the wreckage, multiple bullet holes could be seen all over the plane and the entire room reeked of spilled jet fuel. It was the first time since the initial debriefing that all of us were in the same room together.

Eventually Kish spoke up.

"Alright, I know that none of you are happy with the situation but let's get down to the brass tacks of the issue. We lost people, yes, how are we going to deal with this going into the mission in a few hours?"

"Sir, Respectfully, is there any chance we are going to get any replacements? Or are we going in without half of our planes?" Neo asked. It was a good question; three of our eight planes had been shot down in the last sortie. This meant that we only had one Strike Eagle and four Eagles to keep the airspace over Farbanti secured for the special operations group to complete their mission. We were good, but the odds were not in our favor at all.

"Well, Honestly, Command hasn't said, and by the fact that no one new has shown up I don't think we will be getting any Neo" the squadron commander answered truthfully.

We stood mulling over the consequences. Unfortunately, the reason why Osean command had chosen the 814 was because we had the most fighters available due to the fact we had been spared the initial air war. There were not many fighter wings back to half strength this soon after the start of the war in Osea. We knew that another group would be launching a secondary assault closer to the Lighthouse, and that could pull hostile air forces away from the A.O. but it was unknown what exact hostile numbers In the area we or the Kestrel's Carrier wing would face.

"Sir is there any way we can get a different squadron to take our place?" Ernie asked, a bit of emotion betrayed in her voice

Kish shook his head. "Nope, already asked, we will be launching as the secondary wave, Command believes we can still maintain air superiority with what we have."

"What are your thoughts on the situation?" I asked, it might have been poor form but until a few days prior he had no issue discussing his take on missions.

"Well, I know that griping is supposed to go up the chain, not down, but I will level with you all. We have worked and flown together long enough to earn that much. I personally don't think we will succeed. We may be captured or shot down, or Osea might just right us off and leave us to die. I don't know. But, my advice? If you have anything you want to say to anyone before you die, I suggest you get it done tonight. We are in blackout until we launch." His words hung like a black cloud in the air. We all knew the score, but it was ugly when the man leading the charge didn't have faith in the plan.

We parted ways that night, calls to home were made, letters written, words exchanged. We all hoped it would be all for nothing but, just in case, we would be going out with no regrets.

The morning of the attack was uneventful. We all went about our normal pre-mission routines. Showered, Shaved, Etc. went to the makeshift dining hall like normal, to an outside observer you could not tell that in only a few hours this base would be launching one of the largest aircraft movements in the past ten years. Tankers, Transports, Fighters, Bombers, attackers all from Osea would be descending upon the Erusean Capital, while another group based in Usea would move in on the captured Lighthouse.

The plan was simple, there would be four waves. The first would be the surviving members of the Kestrel II's Carrier wing. Their F/A-18s and F-14D Tomcats would start to hit hardened Anti-air positions and the airfields surrounding Farbanti. Eight minutes following the Carrier wing would retreat and the 814 would continue air suppression maneuvers. Now you ask, 'How would the Erusean's not see the waves inbound over radar?' And for that, we had to do something really stupid. The Erusean over the horizon radar was good to about 30 feet above the deck. Below that anything they saw could have easily been a wave and was often filtered out or disregarded. The plan was for us to hug the deck, going Mach at only ten feet off the deck. The Idea was that the Erusean's would be too preoccupied with the first wave attack they would not notice us approaching, and then Jeeves and Neo would be able to drop the two thousand-pound JDAMs on their radar facilities to blind them to the further inbound waves. Then we would keep air superiority until the final waves would come, we would land troops and hopefully bring the war to an end in the next day or two.

We all knew it was an optimistic plan.

We were briefed where Tankers would be flying, along with the AWACS controlling the battlespace and at what time to expect things to happen. Theoretically six minutes after we arrived a special forces detachment would arrive to capture the Royal family, and when they would be leaving we would escort them out to the awaiting OFS Kestrel II for capture.

Again, military optimism at its finest.

We did our normal preflight procedures. Ran all our usual checklists and waited for release.

While waiting for takeoff I kept thinking about something an old flight instructor said at Heierlark. There were three types of flights he said, there was the one you knew you would make it back alright, the one where you didn't know it would be your last flight, and the dreaded of them all, the one you knew it would be your last flight. That stuck with me while I taxied to the runway. I mean the little bit of hope in me said that all this worrying was for nothing and we would all be laughing about it after the parade was held but. As we took off I just couldn't shake the feeling that there would be no parade.

We were seven minutes from the shores of Farbanti, going over 750 knots and only a few feet from the waves below. We had linked up with the IUN-PKF AWACS 'Argus' en-route. We could only hear one side of the communications, but by all means it was not sounding good for the Kestrel's pilots.

Three minutes after they arrived the retreat was sounded by the acting CAG.

The formation flew hugging the deck, sea spray rooster tailing behind us.

Eventually Argus spoke up "Attention all aircraft, Operation Giants Fury is a failure, we have Arsenal Bird enroute, you are to RTB or surrender by order of Brigadier General Williams"

There was mass confusion over the radio. It was feared, but never confirmed we lost the Arsenal birds to the Eruseans. We sat in silence with the coast approaching further, we did not have enough fuel to make it back to Oost Punt and our only option would be to land in Erusea and surrender ourselves.

Kish Broke Radio silence "Argus, can we swing by and bail out near the Kestrel?"

"Titan Lead, the Kestrel has been sunk. If you do that you would be awaiting Erusean rescue."

"Erusean? You're kidding me."

"Titan Lead, we don't have air superiority, it will be too long before we can send out rescue teams."

"What if we bought you some time?" Kish asked,

On the team frequency I spoke "Kish, What the hell are you planning?"

I could hear an audible sigh as before he spoke in a large boisterous tone, mimicking that of the action stars on the movies.

"Lady and gentlemen of the eight hundred and fourteenth fighter squadron. I do not know about you but personally, I am not prisoner material Even though like Argus said, we are flying into a grave yard, I will fight to the last that my plane and myself can, then, I will find the best target I can reach and shove this F-15 straight down the Erusean bastards gullets, might even kill me a princess in the process. If you join me in this suicide mission, just know that there is no return for us. But if and when we die today, we will make sure the Erusean bastards know it was the Titan's that brought hell to the skies of their capital."

He paused before continuing.

"I don't blame anyone for peeling off and surrendering. Almost all of you are younger then I and have more to live for. If you choose to not join me, and I suggest that I do this alone, may I advise you peel off and take a heading of one six five and surrender yourself to the Erusean Airbase between Farbanti and the Lighthouse. Maybe if you have range you will hit ISAF territory, might be able to return to the skies in a few weeks.I know it should be Professor leading us today, and like you all I am not happy with this change but, if nothing else, let this be my order for you to leave and survive. I will hold them off."

"Well, respectfully sir, you can shove the order up your ass, I'm not leaving" Earp wryly responded.

"Yeah, you sucked as a squadron leader, we aren't going anywhere" Jeeves said.

"Well, I mean, if everyone else is going to go get themselves killed, why should I miss out on the party" I radioed in.

"Hey Ernie, you in for one last ride?" Neo asked

"I guess I have no choice" she sheepishly responded

"Well since its decided that I am a terrible squadron commander that the only order I gave was unanimously disobeyed, we can finish this. If the gentlemen of Titan Three's aircraft could give us some background music, please?"

Suddenly, the frequency was filled with the upbeat tune of a Harmonica. Earp then spoke up. "Guys, I swear to god if that's Timber, I think I will just do us all a favor and shoot your down now"

The music stopped and was immediately filled with the slightly more dramatic sounds of synthesizers. Personally, The Final Countdown would not have been my first pick to die to, but beggars can't be choosers.

We were on our own from the beginning. We knew that. Off in the distance we could see the retreating Osean Navy fighters, being dogged by Erusean MiGs. It was decided we would break off into teams.

Jeeves, Neo and I were one team, Earp and Ernie another and finally Kish would go off on his own.

The Cityscape of Farbanti was massive. Jeeves and I peeled off towards the north around the crater once we hit the submerged portions of the city.

Our first catch of the day was a lone SU-33, damaged from the fight and limping back towards the Airbase. He made for an easy target. Elsewhere we could hear the mayhem our companions were up do. Earp and Ernie had both killed three fighters, and Kish was racking up his own form of enemy demoralization.

We continued our prowl until we finally caught the attention of the Erusean Air Force. Then it was straight into the furball.

The First fighter I went after was a F-16, it past over the top of my aircraft by a hundred feet and a few hundred miles an hour, I pulled up into a split S and got on its six. I locked on with the Sidewinder, first missile missed while the second made contact. Pulling a hard G right turn I fell behind an Erusean MiG-29, this time being too close for positive lock I unloaded a few rounds into him with the Vulcan. The fighter's engines started to spew black smoke and it lazily started to descend, yet another victory.

Then, we lost our next Titan.

Jeeves and Neo had just finished taking out their fourth Erusean when head on came the bullets from a SU-57, They fired their missiles but before their AIM 7 destroyed the interloper, they had taken a hail of bullets.

"Holy Shit, you guys Ok?" I asked as I joined up on their wing. I surveyed their damage, every panel it seemed had a bullet hit and they were leaking fluids from seemingly everywhere.

Over the radio I heard a weak voice, Jeeves', "Hey, buddy, doing alright back there?" The canopy was covered in ash, but I could see the sluggish movements of the pilots inside.

"Yep, you thinking what I'm thinking?" Neo in a faint voice responded. "Yep. Even see the perfect place to do it too."

"What the hell are you talking about? You guys need to bail out" I exclaimed

"Hey, Compass, ever see a two thousand-pound JDAM cook off before?" Jeeves asked rhetorically.

"What do you mean? No, of course not" I responded truthfully

My only response was that of music, an upbeat harmonica opening as I watched their fighter light off the afterburner and make a sharp rolling dive. It was then It occurred to me where we had been over. I watched silently as I saw their plane, exceeding any structural limit, build up airspeed before slamming into the Erusean General Head Quarters.

The initial explosion was dazzling. The one of the two two-thousand-pound bombs detonating a second later. Awe inspiring.

The front of the building disappeared in the explosion and I watched the shockwave blow out windows for blocks.

"Well, those crazy bastards really did die with each other, Kinda poetic since they were never far apart" Ernie noted.

We didn't have time to mourn their loss.

The fight continued another few minutes before we lost Ernie. I don't know what exactly happened to her, just looked up at the right time to see the explosion and her fighter disintegrate around her killing her. We didn't hear anything and didn't see her punch out either.

We were down to three of us. Every second we could see more fighters join the fight, though very few seemed interested in actually fighting the three of us.

Earp fell next. He took on a group of SU-37s, He shot down two before the final pilot performed a cobra maneuver and Earp smashed right into the enemy fighter ripping his left wing off. We could hear his yelling over the radio as he controlled the last working parts of his fighter and launched the remaining munitions he had at the ground below before smashing into the ground as well.

Then, Death came for me. Kish had joined up on my wing. I was low on ammo and fuel, I had only a few bullets left, and my missile supply was depleted. There was a wounded MiG 29, I could see the trailing smoke, but what I didn't see was his wing man. I pulled the trigger and watched as the wounded aircraft blossomed into a ball of flame and debris. Then, I felt cold. In an instant the canopy was shattered, and I knew that I was hit. It was a strange feeling. I knew something had gone horribly wrong, off in the distance I could hear Kish demanding a status report. But, I didn't have the energy to respond. I could somewhat move my left arm, but I couldn't feel my right arm. I lost the energy to keep my head up and looked down, in the corner of my eye I saw the Eursean MiG explode at the hands of a Missile fired by Kish. In my lap was blood, a lot of blood, my blood. I felt cold, so very cold, the sounds of the wind and air had long faded out of existence and I watched helplessly as my crippled fighter made a final fiery plunge to the ground. The last thing I saw was the cul-de-sac.

Then I found myself here. I don't know where here is to say exactly. I have yet to actually see anyone else but you. I don't even know why I'm telling you all this. Its strange. I know we failed, and I know Kish was killed shortly after I was. I watched, seemingly disembodied, as his wounded and bloodied body slammed his fighter straight into the Erusean Royal Family grounds taking out the Erusean Queens prized fountain.

I know what we did, no one will really ever speak of. We were the damned fools that fought a loosing war and died for a stupid reason. No arguments from me on that. I guess the reason I tell you this, all this, is because it's important that at least someone knew of us. We were not just faceless cannon fodder. We all had years of training, hopes, dreams, ambitions, friends, people who cared for us. I don't even know if Osea knew we died. Its possible we could have been marked AWOL when we disobeyed the AWACS. Anything really is possible. But, I just wanted someone to remember us, the Titan's who died to remind the Erusean's that even their own capital wasn't safe from the fury of a people who did not fear death. And, if your adversary doesn't even fear death and would kill themselves in a blaze of glory, how do you even fight them?

I know one things for sure, The pilots who fought us that day would never forget the "Verrückte, blauflügelige Bastarde".


	4. SUBJECT: Colonel Kinsey

DATE: 18/September/2022

MEMORANDUM FOR: OSDF HQ, Internal Intelligence Subcommittee N3M0

FROM: LtCol. REDACTED, BD

SUBJECT: Colonel Final Personnel Report. Posthumous, TOP SECRET.

In the hours, days, months and years following the Lighthouse War, we are left picking up the pieces from the wreckage, dead bodies and shattered lives to try to track down what exactly happened between the morning of May 15th and afternoon of December 1st 2019. While many details are still unknown, like exactly how much Gruender and the Belkan Government knew prior to and what specifically was the Z.O.E Project, something which has caught the interest of the Task Force, exactly is and what its primary purpose was. What we do know is that there were many key players in the War that tore a kingdom to shreds and destroyed global data flow, the repercussions we are still feeling today.

While the more important ones are known, such as the Princess and the Ace. The purpose of this report is to discuss the career and life of Colonel Dwight E. McKinsey.

**SECTION ONE: EARLY LIFE (1970-1988)**

McKinsey largely does not show up in any major databases or documents outside of standard school records until 1983. What we do know before this is that McKinsey was born in 1970 and grew up in a Suburb outside of Bana. His father Aaron taught Engineering at the University and mother Sue was an accountant for a firm in Bana. From school records we can surmise he was no different then any other growing boy during that time. His grades fluctuated but generally stayed within an acceptable range for any school and parent to be proud of. His first nonacademic documentation was for a vandalism charge in 1983, McKinsey was accused of painting graffiti on the wall of a shop. It is unknown exactly what the end outcome was (Records of the outcome were destroyed in the Air Raid on Bana, See After Action Damage Assessment of Operation Wisdom) From what we do know however, whatever the exact outcome of the event was not serious enough to warrant any major investigation following his acceptance to the Academy.

When he first caught the eye of the Osean Defense Force was when he applied for the Air Force Academy the summer of his Junior year in 1987. We do have the liaison's interview assessment summery of the seventeen-year-old.

**{Excerpt}Interview report, LtCol. (ret) G. Hopkins : Dwight E McKinsey**

The kid does appear to have some good insights into the form and function of the ODF. He does seem to have issues with shutting up but that may be overlooked based off his test scores and physical fitness. He seems to live in a gym. I'm not sure he would be a good fit for the front-line duty if it does go hot with Yuketobania. But he does have some merit for an Officer within the ODF.

Though official board scores and such are not available to us, we do know that in 1988 McKinsey was accepted into the Osean Air Defense Force Academy to earn a commission and to be apart of the class of 1982.

**Analysis**

McKinsey seemed to live a rather average life. While he was never first or last within anything, he was routinely towards the front when it came to aptitudes. And by all means on paper he looked to be a competent cadet candidate.

**SECTION TWO: EARLY CAREER (1989-1995)**

Cadet McKinsey was average. From his test scores and aptitudes to his disciplinary blemishes while at the Academy. The only major incident that was found was during his Sophomore year, where he "Got Lost" and ended up asleep under the Academy Commandant's desk in the office, an area off limits to cadets. While a hearing was held, McKinsey was able to remain a cadet though he did lose his rank within the cadet corps and was confined to Academy grounds and was assigned labor for the remainder of his Sophomore year. The only other major Incident was a training accident which had killed a cadet and critically wounded McKinsey (Read attached incident report on 1991 live fire accident), as a result, this held McKinsey into the class of 1993 and forced him to complete his commission a year after his peers. Aside from the incidents above, Cadet McKinsey was by all means an average cadet. No major academic incidents were found against him, while his test scores and grades were lower than most of the cadet corps he was still able to graduate with a Bachelors of Science in Civil Engineering

After graduation and taking the commission of Second Lieutenant in the OADF, McKinsey was transferred to the 23rd Pilot training wing, where he just barely passed his flight competency check ride and was forced to take a check ride with the Wing Commander following a series of failed stage checks. Following his graduation from basic pilot training, he was transferred to the 62nd Fighter Training Wing where, while he passed the tests involved, was recommended for orders transfer outside of flying detail.

because of this, now First Lieutenant McKinsey was transferred to Combat Rescue training command and oversaw logistical support of the training Squadrons present. In this assignment McKinsey became a combat instructor for officers taking the course and would remain here until the completion of his contract. McKinsey would separate following the end of his commission contract in 1994, leaving the Defense force as a First Lieutenant under general discharge.

It is noted that while he was within the 62nd, his lead instructor was a (Then) Captain Orson Perrault, one of the many officers court-martialed and dishonorably discharged following the Belkan Conflict in 2010. (Read attached addendum of the Posthumous Dishonorable Discharge of OADF Airman O. Perrault).

**Analysis**

By all means McKinsey was not a terrible officer, aside from minor issues here and there as noted above he largely went by un-noticed by his superiors in the Osean Defense Force. Many were content to leave him as a platoon-grade officer and go on with preparations for a war with Yuktobania.

Once McKinsey left military service he returned to Bana city and worked in the firm his mother was an accountant at. We largely do not know greater specifics of his life between 1994-1995 aside from federal records that show he was employed in Bana City as an accountant. No major incidents aside from parking tickets can be found to give any insight into the actions of McKinsey during this time.

**SECTION THREE: MAIN LINE ACTIVE DUTY (1995-2012)**

With the outbreak of the Belkan War in 1995, Lieutenant McKinsey was called back to active duty along with close to 15,000 Reserve and Retired Osean Military Personnel to aid in the war effort. McKinsey found himself once again assigned to rear-line detail in charge of logistical support of an Osean Maritime patrol squadron based near November City. It is known however he found this task quote "Menial" and "Degrading" of his self-described "Talents", as found in letters he wrote to his father (Scanned per Osean Military secrecy defense protocols at the time). McKinsey on multiple occasions (almost thirty recorded during the Belkan War) requested transfer to a front-line unit or combat rescue team. Each request being denied.

McKinsey ended up never being transferred throughout Four-month conflict. Though he did remain in the Osean Air Defense Force following the official end of the war and military stand down in December of 1995. Lieutenant McKinsey would remain in service limbo for the next ten years before finally being granted a Promotion to Captain and transfer to the Osean Air Defense Force 128th Combat Rescue Squadron in mid-2004. While in command of a Rescue Squad, McKinsey started making a name for himself as his team routinely aided downed ISAF Airmen during the Continental War of that year in Usea. The actions of him and his team garnered a promotion to major and assignment to the special unit sent to aid recovery efforts and establish the royal family in Farbanti Erusea. Here, Major McKinsey was responsible for recovery efforts and helping oversee military drawback and Erusean self-reliance before taking a permanent post as a liaison at the Osean Embassy in Farbanti.

The First major issue we see with Major McKinsey happened at this time. A concerning report dated to March 2010 (Attached) detailed how Major McKinsey was found in his quarters with an adolescent Erusean national Sophie Andre. Its unknown exactly what took place between the Major and the Erusean however it is known that McKinsey was immediately demoted to First Lieutenant and transferred to a Front Line Osean Ground Defense Unit as punishment.

It is a side note that McKinsey was by all means fortunate that war did break out months later which allowed for his superiors to sweep this under the rug. This is where the McKinsey we saw lately seems to have emerged.

McKinsey was not a popular officer while assigned to Charlie Company 2nd Battalion. It was noted in radio conversation between Fighter pilots of the 108th Tactical Fighter Squadron and forward observers of Charlie Company that an Airstrike was requested on then Captain McKinsey's position. (See Attached Radio records from OFS Andromeda 1/November/2010) one other report was found following the Osean withdrawal from Yuktobania months later that alleged that Captain McKinsey had summarily executed some of his men for attempted 'fragging'. (See Attached memo to General Howell's Office, Osean Supreme commander)

Despite the alleged attempts by his subordinates, McKinsey did survive to lead Charlie Company from the beachhead of the Bastok Peninsula, through the Jilachi Desert, capturing and holding Cruik Fortress during Operation Doodlebug and joining the quagmire that was the siege on Cinigrad, Yuktobania. It was the second week of the siege that saw Captain McKinsey return to the rank of Major and take post in 2nd Battalion HQ after a mortar had killed multiple officers' days prior. McKinsey would remain as a Battalion Deputy Commander until the wars end ten days later where he then took post assisting in recovery efforts between the Osean military and Yuktobanian people. He again would remain in Yuketobania assisting in recovery and public outreach efforts (to much of the chagrin of his counterparts in the Yuktobanian military) until 2012 when he would be transferred to the 82nd Osean Air Defense Force Security Forces Squadron in charge of corrections at Joint Base McKono as a Lieutenant Colonel following the mass court martials in the wake of the Belkan Conflict and discovered Belkan infiltration within the senior echelon of the Osean military.

**SECTION FOUR: JAILER (2012-2019)**

For Seven years Lieutenant Colonel McKinsey would stay as commander of the 82nd Security Forces Squadron. His time as warden of McKono's Disciplinary barracks saw multiple reports of prisoner abuse by the hands of his airmen, liberal use of solitary confinement and no less then three different disciplinary hearings on his actions, all of which were mysteriously withdrawn though personal correspondents of the lead prosecution in the cases hinted at McKinsey having some leverage on his contemporaries.

McKinsey would see promotion to a full bird Colonel in the summer of 2019 with the Outbreak of the Osean-Erusean War, henceforth called the "Lighthouse War" for brevities sake, McKinsey would be assigned as Squadron Commander of the 444th Fighter Squadron, otherwise known as the 444 Penal unit or 'Spares'. With the aid of OADF AWACS Special Mission Bandog He oversaw tactical operations in the southeastern part of Usea from 1 June 2019 to 5 August 2019. In this position, concurrent with the detainment of multiple 'High Asset Value' prisoners, both Civilian and Military in background, he oversaw the combat operations that helped turned the tide of battle on the Usean front. While under his command the Spare Squadron had high rates of mission success, while also suffering some of the worst air casualties during the war. During Operation Two Pair for example, the Spares suffered no less than five airmen casualties while covering the retreat of the REDACTED returning from reconnaissance of REDACTED. This was commonplace for the Spares as under McKinsey's leadership they were given missions that were considered "Too dangerous" for normal OADF personnel to undertake.

McKinsey would be reassigned to IUN-PKF Joint Base North Point following his final successful Operation Full House in which not only was a classified Erusean Prototype destroyed by two of his pilots, Spare 15 and Spare 2, but a successful navigation through Erusean airspace was conducted.

**SECTION FIVE: NORTH POINT AND DEATH (2019)**

McKinsey took position as Deputy Wing Commander at IUN-PKF Joint Base North Point August 10th 2019 where he oversaw B-52 and B-1 bombing missions into Erusea to support the Osean war effort in the region.

No major reports were filed until the Evening of September 18th. From official documentation, one fast mover was picked up by IUN radar sight Shenza at 1550 local time. It was tracked on radar transiting St. Ark's Airspace at 1620, making course towards IUN-PKF North Point. Fighter's were Scrambled at 1622 to intercept. Positive contact with the fast mover at 1638 was made by IUN Ribbon Squadron but were not authorized to engage. At 1640, a F-15C Eagle under the callsign Roper 1 requested takeoff from North Point. Even though Roper 1 was not on any sortie detail or squadron detail and was denied clearance the F-15 took off anyway. It is believed from witness testimony and other data which places the Colonel going missing around 1624 that Roper 1 was indeed McKinsey.

at 1650 Roper 1 was sighted by Ribbon Squadron who were in pursuit and attempted intercept of the Unknown. It was reported that Roper 1 engaged the unknown craft at 1651 with guns before breaking off into a dogfight with the aircraft. Ribbon Squadron under the command of AWACS Sky Keeper broke off and secured the airspace. At 1652 Roper 1's IFF and radar signature was lost by both friendlies in the area and the AWACS on sight. Debris was reported by the Ribbon's flight leader and the unknown contact immediately left the airspace.

at roll call at 1700, McKinsey was reported unaccounted for prompting a search of the local area. At 1740 Search and Rescue had reported locating the debris field of the downed Roper 1 but no bodies were recovered. McKinsey would be reported officially MIA on October 8th 2019 and classified as KIA on May 8th 2021.

It is now believed that Roper 1 was in fact McKinsey. Though no witnesses could positively identify the pilot who took the F-15, audio recordings from the tower and corroborating evidence point to McKinsey being the pilot shot down that evening.

it has since been the belief within the Intelligence community that the Unknown Aircraft that downed McKinsey was related to the Erusean Air and Space Administrations ADFX-10 Unmanned Combat Arial Vehicle program. And of similar make and model of the one encountered during Operation Full House

**SECTION SIX: FINAL COMMENTS **

McKinsey's actual success was seemingly in spite of himself. By all means he did fall through the cracks of our military bureaucracy and should have stayed as a platoon grade officer if nothing else. With the mountain of paperwork, he had attributed to his action it amazed us that he did not end up in McKono as an inmate. While I know I am certainly not one to judge, as some of my actions under the OADF are far what I would be willing to talk to my family about when I see them, he was something different. Time and again we see the justification of horrid acts as 'ends justifying the means', in McKinsey's case while two of his commands were extremely combat effective, he was still not what anyone would consider model officer material. He blatantly violated multiple ODF regulations with the goal of seeing who would come after him. Fortunately, we were spared with dealing with him due to the actions of the EASA's Drone and his own illusions of grandeur.

Ultimately the fate of his legacy is up to you to decide. I have laid out the basic facts of his life as simply and quickly as I could. though my personal feeling with working with him for three months I did say to let him suffer. Deny him of the glory he paid for with the crimes against his fellow Osean's, had he survived the war I would suggest throwing his ass in solitary and smelting the key. But that is just my opinion.

/SIGNED/

REDACTED, "BD", Lieutenant Colonel, OADF

Temporary Deputy Special Tasks Group M1, Air Defense Force Intelligence


	5. Your Out

He looked down at his phone, still no signal.

It was getting closer to November; North Point had quieted down significantly following the collapse of the satellite network. With no direct orders from command the Stratofortress' and Lancers that had been pounding Erusean positions on the mainland had no targets. Every few days a few aircraft or soldiers would land or come by from nearby units would relay messages. It was always the same story, Usea was a black hole for information. Unfortunately, so was getting any communication from Osea or Oured. However, with the communications break it did mean the Incompetent Ass of a Colonel was disposed of. The official story that was told to those not of the officers stationed at North Point was that when communications fell, McKinsey took a cowards way out and redecorated the office with his brains, something a few of his counterparts at other units had reportedly done for fear of a defeat or abandonment.

In reality, the moron was disposed of hours before Operation Giant's Step even began in an unofficial coup by the squadron leaders. Turns out the convicts of the 444 were more tolerant of the Colonel's behavior far more then the combat veterans of North Point, and these guys were far less accommodating of a glory hound who put medals and political favors ahead of the lives of those put under his command.

The old guard dog laughed at the thought. Maybe McKinsey had Presidential ambitions? He had certainly padded his resume with the lives of countless convicts. He struggled to remember most of their names. None of them were Innocent, the Spare's had their fair share of murderers and other low lifes that the military had sunk too much resources into the just simply let rot in a cell. But even he himself wasn't free of sin lines as well.

Walking out to the ramp he looked at his aircraft, though serving no different role then all the other AWACS the OADF had in its arsenal, His was different. A Much older aircraft instead of the newer E-767. He and his crew were supposed to be upgraded with the transfer but like many things that didn't happen. The controller paced around the aircraft stopping to look at the tail. Per request to the crew, he had their Identifier slashed through.

It was their collective sin line.

The Pilot they had murdered, for all they knew he was full of it, but they also knew he could have put more people at risk alive then dead. It was a shameful thing they did, and the flight back to base was quiet. The collective shock of that mission had certainly quieted them all down. It was his call, He had one of his operators update the Friend or Foe tags for one pilot, switching a friendly to a foe and it was over quickly. And while He had a new name and their time with the Penal unit would be classified, they could not forget the transgression they had collectively committed.

The Plane was just getting ready for another communication attempt sortie. They had tried for the past couple of weeks to reach someone, anyone, over the aircrafts High Frequency Radios. For hours at a time they would stay on station, tuning in on any intelligence they could find. They were not Electronic Warfare nor surveillance unit but they could still cover a lot of the airwaves with the onboard equipment. The picture of the outside world was ugly. It seemed that when everything went to hell, there was a prisoner revolt at his old unit, and now the pilots he used to provide support to had started to fire on any one and everyone. Usea, still recovering from the way almost a decade and a half prior was just starting to return fully to the twenty first century, But aside from reports that Erusea had fully collapsed in on itself and rumors of a Osean Civil war, nothing was for certain.

The Controller sat back and wondered, The Spare's he dealt with like Count, Trigger and Tabloid, did they even survive to see the hell the world found itself in? He thought back to the stories of Armageddon he was told as a child, sitting in church with his grandparents, while there wasn't a literal fire and brimstone raining from the heavens, there was an ever-present meteor shower from the crumbling communications infrastructure. Now while the depictions were not wholly accurate he could not find a better analogy for the situation they found themselves in. This really did look like the end of the world. No one knew what tomorrow would bring, would it be the horseman of Pestilence, or Famine that would rear its head next? War had already seemed to run his path.

No one knew what the next day would bring. Not having a full picture always bothered him. He had to hope that out of something, maybe someone could get them a message. Anything at this point to just give some indication it might be OK.

"Hey, Sir? I think I got something"

"Put it on the Loudspeakers"

"Hey Dumbass, If you want to bring the world back from the brink, Go to the Lighthouse. You can see the future there"

A smile broke out on the guard dog's face for the first time in weeks.

Maybe it would work out in the end.


	6. Warlocks

"This is bullshit and you know it"

It was a bad operation. Poor planning and hasty prep on the commands part put them in the corner from the start of the mission. Now at least one, if not two of their fellow pilots were KIA, and their mission was a failure.

The seven-man squadron was on their long flight back to their Launch Airfield outside Roca Roja.

The Old Man sighed, ignoring the comment emanating from one of the newer pilots, 'Sung'.

"Cut the chatter Warlock eight" barked the Old Man's wingman, 'Anvil', the unquestioned second in command of the 288th Tactical Fighter Squadron, known as the 'Warlocks'.

The Old Man brushed off the comments and continued to think about the mission behind them.

The mission objective was simple, link up and provide cover for a sortie of F-14 Tomcats to bomb an Erusean Ammo factory. The opening of the operation was going fine. The Warlocks encountered and dispatched the MiG-21's that had been flying air patrol in the area, but before the Tomcats could drop their payload many new contacts seem to appear from nowhere, all UNKNOWN on their aircrafts IFF identifiers. Instead of calling the mission off and retreating, he continued with the operation. Continuing to provide air cover and without AWACS support the Old Man dispatched two of his nine pilots to make contact with the unknown bogies.

What they found was eighteen F/A-18 Hornets with no discernable markings. It was concerningly similar to a report the Old Man was briefed on a week prior involving some unlucky scout unit that took casualties to a similar squadron. The Planes had acted docile until the F-14's crossed within bombing distance of the factory. In an instant the Hornets scrambled and engaged the Warlocks and Tomcats. The Warlocks flew cover until the F-14s escaped, but when it came time for their retreat the two planes the Old Man had dispatched were missing from radar. No one had seen or heard them get shot down and the airspace was too hot for a search. Reluctantly the Old Man gave the order for his squadron of F-16s to egress from the combat zone and made the reluctant report to the HQ.

"Seriously, what the fuck was the Old Man thinking? We should have called it off when all those bogies arrived" Sung hissed.

"knock it the hell off Sung." Said another pilot, vocally agitated over the insubordination.

"No! the Old Man Clearly has lost it, he is unfit to lead!" Sung yelled again defiantly.

"What are you gonna do then? Shoot him down?" asked another pilot sarcastically.

"You know, that's a great idea. I already bagged eight kills and we already lost two of our guys, what's one more body bag" Sung taunted.

"But wait that would be mur-" Anvil protested

"Fine" the Old man let go of the mic switch.

There was an unease following before Sung spoke up again.

"Ok, there's a perfect spot I know, thirty DME from base. Break off and follow me"

At Thirty miles from the base, the Old Man relinquished the squadron to Anvil and peeled off flying on Sung's wing.

Anvil watched as the two departed.

"That crazy bastard" She muttered,

"Wait, do you really think the Old Man has lost it?" questioned one of the newer pilots

"No, I think Sung lost it."

The land below them was a vast desert of sand and nothing.

"This is the spot" Sung reported.

"Sung, Listen, we don't have to do this." The Old man pleaded.

"No, you've lost it, either I do this or you get us all killed"

"So be it"

"on three we are going to break off, fly for ten seconds and make the turn in, then its on. Im taking you down" stated Sung

"Fine"

"One, two, three!" at three both F-16s peeled off in opposite directions, flying straight for ten seconds then making a turn inbound.

With both fighters' afterburners screaming, one of their guns lit up and tracers danced across the sky at their adversary. Upon crossing both fighters immediately pulled nose up into a high G climb, the Old Man was at the top and Sung trailing. Inside the cockpit the Old man could hear a radar lock on followed by a missile alert. Waiting for the tone to close in, at the last second the old man kicked full left rudder while pulling the air brakes, the fighter lurched then cartwheeled away as the missile passed harmlessly dozens of feet away loosing track.

Realizing he had been had, Sung pulled out of the climb and searched the sky and his radar for the Old Man. Suddenly the radar alert tone wailed in his ear, instinctively he deployed flares and pulled into a high-G turn, off in the distance of his fading vision he could make out the shape of the Old Man's Viper.

Turning to face his adversary head on he increased the throttle to full afterburner, switched to his remaining missile and armed his cannons, he watched as the HUD ticked passed Mach 1, then 1.5, screaming towards his foe he watched the missile lock on, then he fired. Once again, the old man waited for it to close in before making a quick break off. Anticipating this, Sung Immediately started tracking the Old Man with his cannon and opened fire. Click, click, click, click, before the Bitching Betty indicated "Ammunition Zero"

Being startled momentarily he lost track of the Old Man. Frantically looking around he could see anything other then the sands below and the blue sky above.

"Hey, Old Man you quit yet" the unease was betrayed in his wavering voice.

His only response was the radar alert annunciator followed by a missile alert tone, the chirping was so close that Sung knew the Old Man had to have been right on top of his position.

There was no way to avoid what happened next, Sung braced for the explosion and hoped that just maybe he would survive long enough to eject.

He flinched before hearing a dull Thunk followed by the shudder of his Viper as something solid, yet harmless bounced off the fuselage.

"Had Enough?" Questioned the Old Man

The Sun hung slow in the sky when the Old Man and Sung returned to Base. To Sung's surprise Base Security Forces were not there to greet them, and much to his displeasure neither was the ground crew.

As Sung and the Old Man secured their respective aircraft silently, the squadrons crew chief approached the Old Man.

"So, you 'kill' one today?" he joked, offering the Old Man a cigarette.

The Old Man declined and gazed across the ramp at the new pilot

"Yeah… Kid has potential but not enough brains. But I guess I was like that when I was a nugget so… there's that" he dismissingly stated.

"Eh, don't take it too hard, at least he lived to learn not to fuck with you. Besides, you gave him something to aspire to. 'One shot, one kill' and all that nonsense" the mechanic said in support, motioning to the Hardpoints that still had one AIM-9 attached.

"And maybe with enough time he will learn to listen to you," He added.

"Maybe" The Old Man sighed, thinking about a similar fight he had almost twenty-five years prior. He was a young idealistic pilot, and mistakes had been made, mistakes he continued to pay for.

"So, when are you guys gonna tell me what 'SUNG' stands for?" The mechanic asked.

"Shut Up New Guy, we said it enough times that it just kinda stuck for him" the Old Man replied

"And yours, 'WAIT'?"

"Why Am I Talking"

"Hmm… wouldn't have picked that one up"


	7. Spinning, Thats a Good Trick

"So… How did you know that would work?"

"to be honest, I just fucking panicked"

_Shit, Fuck, Shit, can't get this guy off my ass. Where the hell is my cover?_

"Well, its pretty impressive, you took rounds in just about every control surface, I stopped counting shattered fan discs at twelve, how you didn't loose your engine entirely is anyone's guess"

_Crap, let's try rolling, that's a good trick?_

"heh, I guess your right"

"Say, what was that other guy flying anyways?"

"SU-33 I think. Honestly couldn't tell you between the getting shot at"

_What the hell was that sound? Jesus so many Annunciations going off it all just doesn't mean shit. Hmm, Let's try this, hope I got enough between me and him_

"Jesus. You know how hard a Starfighter is to repair son?"

"Can't say I do"

"Well. I don't either, but I can tell you parts for these ain't cheap. The only ones with any spare are the Osean's and we know they ain't in the most amicable of moods towards us right now, with all the shit the Radicals pulled"

_Jesus that was a lot of bullets, well, I still have some feeling in the controls, so the fucker didn't hit much, looks like he did hit my pitot and static system. I guess I get to eyeball it. Now, he should pass over me right before stall_

"Well, Whatever, that was a good kill from the looks of it, I wish you didn't use your plane as a sacrifice to get it, but it is what it is."

"Yep. I'm just amazed I didn't take any bullets, I tried to make myself small before I tried it but wasn't sure how well it would work."

"Son, you don't have even the slightest clue how friggin lucky you are. My guys have stopped counting how many bullets you took. Hell, I would say buy a lotto ticket tonight."

"I guess your right"

"Hey, doesn't that make your fifth victory?"

"Hmm. Guess you're right."

"Congrats"


	8. Three Pictures

Even the Air Force had amazing ways of making a chaotic thing such as war boring and clinical. Being a flight leader was not all it was made out to be by my superiors. While being a squadron commander had its charms at the start, now it was more of a headache keeping me out of the air to do such things as personnel reports and intelligence briefings.

With the bomb sabotage earlier in the morning, it didn't make the day any easier. I had three planes damaged and two pilots injured, one critical and my flight leader with minor wounds. I sit at my desk and once again draft a memorandum to the High Command in Farbanti about the lax security details they have been providing to air bases on the front lines of the conflict. It was a frustrating continuation of many requests I have made in the past few months through the chain of command. Unfortunately, each request seems to fall on deaf ears as problems continue to persist.

Taking a break, I survey the "Office", though there was not much to be seen. I had three pictures, and a stack of personnel files for incoming pilots and another stack of paperwork for pilots that have been transferred out, handful of reports on enemy actions that I received from military intelligence, along with an electric type-writer, phone, and clock.

I survey the only pictures I had. The first was of me, a young man just finishing initial flight training in the L-39 and earning my wings. It struck me that, though almost a decade had past how different I am now to the young Lieutenant in the picture. Two wars, four airplanes and thousands of hours later I was far worse for wear then the young man I see in the image before me. I sit and try to remember the ceremony. The other flight cadets and I in the massive hanger in the south of our country, the weather was unusually pleasant, beating the ever-constant heat that dogged us most of the time. He was in my dress uniform next to my wingmen, some of our families had gathered and the training wing commander presented us with our Pilots wings and orders to our assignments. That was one of my proudest moments, wings shining next to the aircraft I had spent the past hundred hours mastering.

The one next to it was when I took command of my current squadron, it was months before our war began, the 156th previous commander was killed in a training sortie and the Wing commander saw it fit to put me in charge of the experimental fighter wing. It was also the only picture I had with my mentor. The Old Man was the one who taught me everything about fighter combat, how to read the weather and take advantage of every little thing no matter how small. Though by the time I became his student, shortly after the first picture was taken, he had long since retired from flying status in the Air Force he had seem to ask for me personally. Though I asked, I still don't know what he saw in that young man all those years ago, but the Old Man never answered and was always quick to dodge the question. I spent an entire year with him at his residence learning everything I could from him and his 68th. His lessons were the only reason I had survived the first war a year following.

he seemed disappointed when I announced my intentions to join in with the first war. It surprised me, as he was well known as being the best pilot in recent memory but alas he dismissed me out of his office. I never found out what his thoughts were on the Belkans or on my eventual shoot down and retreat from the conflict. I am still thankful that I was not forced to partake in the idiotic plan that ended that first war.

A knock at the door breaks me from my memory. The secretary quickly drops the report at my desk and retreats into the office complex that is acting as the current base headquarters. The Report was a detailed medical workup for both of my injured pilots. Gene, a younger cadet from flight training would be out of flight status for at least a month, while my Flight commander only received light wounds and could be back and airborne by next week. I sign the order to keep her grounded and have it submitted to the base physician. Walking back to my desk I am stopped by the Squadron crew chief. A lanky Belkan man with a thick accent, large mustache and balding head. I open the only window of the office to let some of the cool spring air in as he briefs me on the situation.

"Sir, to simply put, Four's aircraft is in dire need of replacement. I had my crew put a new set of Lyulka Turbofans onboard and made some repairs, but further inspection shows that plane is on its last legs as an advanced fighter. The damage she took with this morning, along with every other sortie she was hit in, I can't make any promises anything on that plane will function correctly if it comes down to it." The Chief says in a defeated tone.

The problems I had been reporting up my chain of command were his to bear often. Our turbine fuel was more of a mix of whatever the logistics could get its hands on, let it be automotive gas, diesel or regular aviation fuel. The maintainers on base did the best they could but our engines started to fail at a greater rate than they should.

"What about spare parts?"

"Well sir, if we take Zero-Four off the line and start parting her out, we may be able to make up for half the parts we lost today in that attack"

I sigh heavily, the service uniform I'm stuck in today seems to get more restricting by the minute, far more then the Nomex flight suit ever does.

I dismiss the Chief and go back to the paperwork before me. I read a more recent report about an enemy Ace I have crossed paths with. The troops took to calling this enemy ace "The Grim Reaper", Though I preferred to call him by the more apt nickname of "The Ribbon Fighter". We had crossed paths at least twice before. Each time we were always one step behind them and showed up right as this Ace and his squadron had finished their attacks. They were impressive to say the least. The most recent report was dated back to January in which this ace and their squadron provided air cover for the land invasion. They single handedly secured the airspace, in the middle of a storm and did not take a single casualty. I stop to wonder if the Old Man too was following the path of this ace.

I am again broken from my thought to a sound, this time it's the high-pitched whine of turbine engines, multiple, spooling up. Soon a dull roar fills the air as multiple fighters take off. I look and see the yellow flashes of my men taking off. I don't seem to remember our squadron being tasked with CAP today but with the past few weeks being as chaotic as they have been I wouldn't be surprised if we were last minute additions to the roster. Just then there's a crash and a young flight lieutenant is panting, hunched over hands on his knees panting heavily.

"Sir!" he shouts between breaths. Rather disturbed by his blatant lack of common courtesy I look at the name on his flight suit. Flaubert. Of course, he was one of the new additions to the squadron, though he had marginal marks throughout his time at the Academy and throughout flight training he made it through due to his family's connections in the Ministry of Defense. While the young man had promise he was not fighter pilot material and certainly was not Yellow Squadron material.

He continued his panting. "Sir, she took off!"

"What are you talking about?"

"Four sir! she left, I guess The Reaper is attacking Stonehenge and she left"

Stonehenge, a massive railgun facility designed to destroy the asteroid that had changed the face of the world and truly was the greatest scar on humanity, was the thing that largely started this war. It was his squadron that helped seize it, it was his squadron that defended it and took out the best pilots that ISAF had to offer, and once again it appeared to fall on the 156th Fighter Wing to come to Stonehenge's aid one again.

Unfortunately, the one to make that call was not me but my flight leader, the same woman I had just grounded an hour prior.

I quickly make a call over to the Hanger farm, Before the chief can make his reporting statement I give my order to have the plane pre-flighted, spooled up and ready to go in the next five minutes before hanging up I start towards the airport. Flaubert follows me ranting on how it quickly came down and he figured that it was not ok and so on and so forth.

What a kiss ass

We get to the hanger and my Terminator is just getting unplugged from the start cart. Grabbing my Helmet and jacket from the locker I turn to see Flaubert doing the same.

"Lieutenant what do you think you're doing?" I ask rather pointedly. He seemed somewhat taken aback by the question.

"Well what do you mean sir?"

"I asked 'what are you doing?'"

"Well, I figured you uh, needed someone to fly your-"

"No." as jab a finger into his chest. "Sir?"

"Your flight commander said to sortie is that correct?"

"Well Yessir but- "

"But nothing Lieutenant, you put your wingmen in jeopardy by not following a direct order, which makes me question if you can be trusted to fly my wing. No lieutenant, you'll be grounded until I get back, and we will be discussing this later."

Spinning on my heel I kick off the dress shoes and climb into the cockpit. Doing a quick check on the annunciators I plug in and make the calls.

"Tower, Yellow leader at the Hangers, need taxi for takeoff without current weather."

"Yellow one-tree, San Salvacion Tower, cleared for takeoff once you hit the runway, take heading one eight zero, you are one one minutes behind the rest of your squadron"

"Cleared for takeoff, any runway, Yellow One-tree"

Always late. We are always just a little bit too late. Flaubert was correct, the Grim Reaper was there, and not only did he destroy the weapon that would help Erusean victory, he killed my protégée, flight commander, wingman and friend.

I knew Four for many years, she was just a young girl when we first met in Farbanti after my first war. It was with my aid that she made it into the Academy, and then into the pilots pipeline and she was my fighter combat student. She was the only request I had made for transfer into the 156th after I took command. I had seen her go from this young teen with more anger then common sense and watched her become one of the most feared pilots in the war. She could have been better then both myself or the Old Man.

I look at the third photo on my desk. It was similar in setting to the first, except instead of the young bright-eyed young man standing gleaming in front of the Albatross, it was of Four, defiantly looking on taking on the next challenge.

I think I understand what the Old Man was thinking all those years ago. He had spent hours with me in that Flanker teaching me everything he knew, like he did for every pilot before me, and just to see this young arrogant captain go overseas to throw his life away.

I think about last night at the local bar the Squadron has taken over, she had said something to me. What was it? I was so distracted thinking about this new opponent that might just be worthy enough I wasn't paying close attention. Honestly on the ground I rarely did pay any attention to the small details, a bad habit I picked up from my mentor. A few of the pilots just passing through had pulled me aside in the past, asked about or relationship. I always did feign some ignorance, but It was one of the things I did notice. Four was always a constant after myself and the old man parted ways. I don't think my intentions were of the romantic sort, but who knows what hers were. But I did always notice she was close at hand, all except for today.

Her first, and last, flight leader assignment. It was just a recent promotion, more of a formal excuse rather then literal as she had really taken the role of corralling the Younger fresh flight lieutenants when command started using the 156th as a training wing instead of a Fighter squadron. The pilots I had trained to be the best had been shipped to lead squadrons elsewhere.

I pull the handkerchief she had left in her flight locker. Logically it was a useless memento but for now it was the only thing I really had left of her. I look up at the clock, 1830, Time to go to the Bar where the rest of the squadron will be heading right about now and give the debriefing.

I don't know who this Ribbon Fighter is, but not only has he made himself known as a worthy opponent, he has made this fight personal.

The Old Man surveyed the courtyard of his estate. Somewhere In the large castle he could hear his granddaughter, almost a year old now, fussing. The Cool autumn air was now filled with the faint smell of smoke, down below a beleaguered and defeated Army regiment was being moved, guarded by the victor.

Though some at the Ministry of Defense, now disbanded following the nations defeat at the hands of the Allies, had called the Old Man and his squadron "cowards", The Old Man knew this wasn't their war to fight. From the correspondents received from his student, the Old Man concluded the failed policies of the Ministry and High Command would lead to the downfall of the country of Erusia. There was no need to have his men have their lives thrown away so pitifully. They technically were not even a military unit, thus not a military target and no suspicion or heightened security was deployed to their airfield when the Allies had moved through. No need when all that could be seen were some prop Cessna's and the rusting, bullet ridden executive transport for the former royal family of the region. No, this war was not for his men, they would wait, leave their Flankers in their hangers out of the sight of the Allies, and then, when the government was reformed, they would return to the standard training regime.

He thought to his student. In the last letter he received almost three months ago, told of his student's squadron reassignment to the capital following the military retreat in mid-July. Though not expressly said, He knew his student was still grieving over the loss of his wingman, a young woman that, from the information the Old Man gathered from his contacts in the Ministry and from his students' letters, had much promise if she would have slowed down ever so briefly. His student also wrote of his white whale, A "Ribbon Fighter" those at the Ministry nicknamed the "Grim Reaper". Specifics on this pilot were scarce, even the spies within the ISAF couldn't get more then the public relations story on this mysterious pilot. The Old Man had just presumed it was more then one person manning the aircraft, but his student was convinced that this pilot was the same one who he had crossed paths with in Comberth and the Comona Islands. This was all but confirmed with the loss of the railgun facility "Stonehenge" along with his wingman.

The Old Man continued to think when one of the many workers of the house came in to drop off a priority message. He read it but had already largely known what it was about weeks prior. It was a confirmation from his remaining contacts in Military Intelligence.

_156 TFW Y1 KIA, Y1 POSTHUMOUSLY AWARDED ER DFC, Y1 POSHUMOUSLY AWARDED UE DFC_

The Old Man briefly pondered if the one to shoot down his protégé was the Ribbon Fighter. And then Looking up to the multiple Allied aircraft in the skies over head if one of them could be the mythical fighter that brought down his student. He smiled at the thought, and his gaze fell on the only photo he had of his student, taken right after he took command of his first squadron.


End file.
